


Can't Stop, Won't Stop

by AdelineAround



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mechanics, Beta'd and transmasc approved, Bottom Connor, Clothed Sex, Come Swallowing, Creampie, Cunnilingus, Eskimo Kisses, Flirting, Grinding, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm, Post-Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Power Play, Praise Kink, Rough Sex, Teasing, Top Hank Anderson, Trans Character, Trans Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Vaginal Sex, musk kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 15:15:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16684030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdelineAround/pseuds/AdelineAround
Summary: Connor, an android auto technician, is assigned to fix up Hank Anderson's prized 1987 Chevy Caprice.And,oh, if Hank does not already get Connor's engine revving, he will soon.





	Can't Stop, Won't Stop

**Author's Note:**

> Per request, here is the Mechanic Connor fic we have all wished for, but never received.  
> This is for you, dear readers.
> 
> The terms nub, pearl, front hole, entrance, sex is used when referring to Connor’s genitalia bio-component.

Shit. This is _not good_.

“Connor!” Jeffrey Fowler, service director of the car dealership just southwest of Detroit, none too gently shouts over the machinery in the main body shop garage. 

Connor balances the tire he is rolling over to the calibration machine nearest the wall before bounding over to his boss with raised brows. He would pant a little if he needed to, the warm summer air doing no justice to keep him from sweating the tiniest bit. Faintly, he wonders why the dealership had not thought to install air conditioning in the central shop. It would certainly help him and the rest of the crew from overheating in the middle of July; the hottest time of year in the Midwest.

“Yes, sir,” he says, spine straight and posture fixed.

When Fowler calls you over, that spells out immediate trouble. RK, Connor’s… _younger brother_ , for a lack of better terms, stands to the side, as if eavesdropping while cleaning his tools. Connor crushes a pout that tries to wiggle its way up to his lips. This spells out in clear letters: no good.

“In my office,” Fowler speaks, a frown permanently fixed on his face.

It has been there since the day Connor first met the man; Connor has never seen his boss smile before. At least, he has not seen any other smile than the overly-done, “customer knows best” one that Fowler makes when Mrs. Caroline Phillips will not speak to anyone but a manager. Part of Connor tells him to be professional about it, but he cannot help but think that the man has been let down so much in his life, that the frown has made permanent residence on Fowler’s facial features.

“Did you hear him, Connor?” RK reiterates when Connor does not move.

If they were not at work, Connor would have turned around, picked up the tire he was tending to earlier, and flung it at his brother. The preconstructed path of trajectory would be perfect, he finds as his eyes flick quickly from the tire to RK…

But then he glances at a grey Chevy rolling in towards his station, and hopes this meeting will not take long. His temper has been difficult to control since he went deviant.

“And RK,” Fowler points at Connor’s younger brother. “You too. In my office, now.”

RK puts down his tools, face dropping into his usual, otherwise stoic expression.

Connor stuffs his hand in one pocket, fingers finding the coin he keeps in there. He smooths over the grooves and raised texture of it as he an RK file in line to Fowler’s office. Deep in his chassis, internal fans kick on in attempt to cool his processing core as he whirs through every possible cause as to _why_ his boss wants to talk to RK and Connor both. All the while, his fingers do not stop going over George Washington’s embossed visage on the quarter in his pocket.

“Take a seat,” Fowler grunts, closing the door behind RK, as the RK900 is the last one to enter the office.

The closed door means privacy, and privacy means that one of them, if not both of them, might have screwed up on something so badly that Fowler has to close the office door.

Connor’s anxiety meter ticks up a notch.

“Did you hear him?” RK says again, already sitting in the blue chair across from Fowler’s desk.

“I would rather stand, sir, but thank you for the offer.” Connor ignores RK completely, instead addressing Fowler.

He is too nervous to sit. He is afraid he might fidget if he sits in that chair, right in front of his boss like the day he came in to interview.

Connor knows he can easily shut off the feeling in his gut, near his thirium pump and decorative diaphragm, but it will not help him with the thoughts of worry that reel through his mind. Sometimes, Connor wishes he never went deviant. It would be easier to take orders, fulfill commands, than stand here and contemplate over the past few months of working under Fowler’s supervision.

“Do you know why I called you in here?” Fowler starts off, sitting in his designated chair. He heaves his elbows onto the surface of the table, interlacing his fingers with one another as dark eyes dart from one android to the other.

Connor purses his lips. He is about to answer with a possibility when RK speaks up first:

“I must have miscalculated when installing a new housing seal on the transmission of Mr. Manfred’s Impala,” he says, voice stone cold and clipped.

Connor knows that RK is only talking this way because he knows Fowler will react with the same type of robotism in his tone of voice. It is a little funny, in that humans are so programmed, much like machines are, to respond in a way that sometimes reflects others’ expressions. He cancels the little quirk command to smirk, knowing that his boss would not understand _why_ he is smiling.

Fowler looks appalled. “What? No, no, that’s not what I called you in for… but Leo Manfred’s _Impala_ , RK?”

“He insisted I do something quickly,” shrugs RK. “He said his _Giselle_ was leaking like a tap.”

“He named his car ‘Giselle’?” Fowler sounds like he cannot believe it. He does not reflect RK’s mood.

RK nods, completely serious. “Mr. Manfred complained that _she_ was dripping transmission fluid like a-”

“With all do respect, sir,” Now, it is Connor’s turn to step into the conversation, while potentially saving his “brother’s” reputation. “What _did_ you call us in here for?” The sooner he finds out what is wrong, the sooner he correct the issue and put it behind him.

At least, that is what his HUD objectives are telling him.

**SPEAK TO J. FOWLER**  
** > DISCOVER PROBLEM**  
** > CORRECT PRIMARY COMPLAINT**  
** > CHECK FOR SECONDARY ISSUES**

Blinking, Connor whisks the task list away from his field of vision. He knows how to act, even without his programming to help prompt him. He has been living as a deviant long enough to do these types of things on his own; not when his system deems him ready to move onto the next course of action.

There is a knock at the door then, so sudden that it would make Connor jump in place if he were a flighty human. Instead, both his and RK’s head snaps to the office entrance, their LEDs blinking a curious blue.

“Come in,” Fowler says loud enough for the person behind the door to hear. When the knob is turned and the rest of the world’s sounds suddenly flood into the small office space. “Just in the nick of time, Hank.”

 _Hank_ emerges from behind the door… more _crowds_ the door, as he is so tall that it makes the dealership’s interior a dollhouse. Connor does a quick scan on the man, measuring that Hank is just at six feet and four inches. Silver-white hair is pulled back in a short, curly ponytail, beads of perspiration on his forehead. His eyes are a dark shade of sea, less like RK’s ice and more like the water that flows into a bay. A sharp nose compliments a jaw that was- and still is- equally as sharp under the forest of bushy beard. A nice neck with a strong trachea and jugulars. Arms and chest hidden by an eccentrically patterned button-up shirt. Connor feels his eyebrows raising as he peers down at the man’s hands, taking in the size of them. They are large, warm, so much bigger and sturdier than Connor’s own, even as Connor deals with very hands-on work…

“What’s going on?” RK’s voice snaps Connor out of his scanning mode. “Your LED is spinning yellow.”

Don’t look at Hank for too long. Quickly, Connor’s fingers come to block out his LED. Damn his decision for not taking it out. It is like a dead giveaway, showing everyone what he is thinking… at least, to some degree.

“This is Hank,” Fowler explains, giving the man a friendly pat on the back. Hank grunts, beard moving as he grins goodnaturedly. “RK, we need to discuss the Manfred case, which means-” He looks at Connor. “-you will be taking care of my friend here. Do I make myself clear?”

Syncing his timing with RK’s, Connor and RK declare, “Crystal, sir.”

Both Hank and Fowler stare at the RK800 and RK900, who blink once, separately this time, at the men in the room.

There is an awkward pause before Fowler is shooing everyone out of his office, “Alright, Hank ain’t that pretty. Stop starin’ and everyone except RK get out, will ya?”

Connor is quite literally shoved by none other than RK, out of the room and back into the dealership’s lobby. He takes a moment to run his hands down his uniform, straightening any wrinkles in the fabric; his face readjusts from a shocked look to a neutral, friendly one.

“Okay, Mr. Hank,” He turns to Fowler’s friend, who quite literally is towering over Connor with his massive height. Connor tries to ignore how close they are standing; keeping his body still and voice from wavering, “I’ll bring you over to one of our service advisors. They can get you situated from there…”

**NEW OBJECTIVE: FIX HANK’S VEHICLE**  
** > SYNC WITH SERVICE ADVISOR’S DATABASE**  
** > BRING VEHICLE TO LIFT**  
** > DIAGNOSE VEHICLE ISSUE**

Connor is already leading the way to the service advisor desks, when Hank’s large, _warm_ hand shoots out and circles around his wrist, stopping him in his tracks. Connor rotates around to look at Hank so fast that he would have gotten whiplash if he was a human. Looking down at where Hank is still touching him, he then locks eye contact with the man.

“Whoa, stop.” Hank says, “I thought Jeff said you were tending to me. I don’t want a service advisor. Not when you’re going to be my mechanic.” He adds, “You _are_ a mechanic, aren’t you?”

“Well, yes, but-“ Connor begins, but that much is enough to answer Hank’s question.

The man releases Connor’s wrist in favor for crossing his arms over his chest. “But nothing. Look, I rarely trust him with anyone, let alone android mechanics like you. So, just let me, I don’t know, sit around and watch or something while you figure out what the hell is wrong with him.”

“Him?” Connor asks, still not understanding.

“My car,” Hank clarifies. “He’s been acting up all week.”

Connor has always found it funny how people assign names and personalities to things like vehicles. He figures that it is not very unlike giving androids a name and basic skills to pass the Turing test, though vehicles like cars do not have free reign like Connor and other androids do now. However, others do not pay any attention to their cars, letting them rot away in garages over the winter and spring, or insist that their machine has a faulty non-commercial component that they had bought online and installed for free. Connor winces a little each time at the mention of anything being called “just a machine”. Whether cars are entities or not, Connor still feels it is wrong to call them a machine, when he too is made out of gears and parts.

He feels the corners of his mouth tilt upwards in a smile.

“I… guess I can let you sit in by me while I diagnose your vehicle, Mr. Hank,” Connor gives in. If Fowler wants to give him trouble for this later, he will also have to give his friend, Hank, a hard time too.

“Anderson,” Hank says without context.

“I’m sorry?” Connor blinks.

“Anderson. My last name is Anderson,” Hank explains.

Ah, so that is his full name. In the back of Connor’s program, he allows himself to link to the dealership’s customer database. Easily, he finds Hank’s folder, filed under the tab _Anderson, Henry_. There is one vehicle listed in his name; one that is vintage, from way back in 1987- a Chevrolet Caprice, grey model. Frequent oil changes. Conventional oil preferred.

Connor makes a note to convince Hank and switch him over to synthetic oil instead.

And tries not to smirk.

This is the same grey Chevy that was rolled into his dock just minutes ago.

“Okay, right this way, Mr. Anderson.” Connor puts on his professional tone of voice, as he will have to play as both mechanic and service advisor. He leads them to the garage, letting the man pass through before him.

The sigh Hank makes echoes through the shop. It must be lunchtime, realizes Connor. He knows that androids do not eat, but to recharge and socialize..? Every intelligent being would take an hour break to stop working and relax. They are all alone here. Connor squashes down the ticklish feeling of nervous butterflies fluttering around his thirium pump regulator.

Hank trails back behind Connor so he may follow the mechanic to his station. His car sits there, already hooked to the polejacks and lift.

It looks pretty, suspended like this, almost like the Caprice is carefree. In the lighting, it looks like a young automobile again, years of minor abrasions in the paint suddenly looking more like freckles than scratches. The undercarriage, dirty with a film of the earlier month’s salted, snow-slush roads, are a tan line other than a sign of possible corrosion. The headlights are still clear, the polycarbonate plastics looking fairly new; Hank must have gotten them replaced sometime in the past seven years. It gives the Caprice a youthful, bright look in contrast to its actual age.

It is a decently cared-for vintage in this day and age.

“There he is,” Hank announces sentimentally, as if he sees the car as a living being.

As soon as Connor lowers the lift, Hank’s hand comes out to touch the hood of the car, almost as if he is reminiscing on all the adventures he has had with it. Connor’s stance softens; though he cannot relate, he does find it interesting that humans have such a deep connection with their vehicles.

“What seems to be wrong with him?” Connor asks, trying to whittle out the chief complaint.

It should be easy, Connor’s scanners tell him. He can already see that the car is a little off-kilter. Something seems to be wrong around the tires, but his optical scanners cannot go into as much depth as the other androids designed specifically for technician work.

“Something’s weird,” Hank finally answers. “Like he’s not working the way he was when I first took him out this season.”

Connor hums. “Not working the way… like how?” he asks finally.

He already knows that Hank’s vehicle has been experiencing braking problems; that the anti-lock braking system (ABS) is not doing what it is supposed to. It should be a fairly simple fix, for it is not the ABS that is malfunctioning, rather it is the brake discs and caliper that need replacing. He should also note to look at the brake pads, just to make sure they are not completely worn, in case they decide to fail and the gears end up damaging the rotors, as brake discs typically affect the performance of the brake pads. If the discs deteriorate, the brake pads are soon to go next.

Connor is about to inform Hank about all of this, but what happens next is something that Connor _is not_ expecting.

The man saunters around the front of the car once, going back to his original position after a minute or two.

“Connor has been smoking hot on the road lately,” Hank says, cerulean eyes flicking up to meet Connor’s own brown. “It’s harder to brake with him… he always just wants to keep _going_.” His long, thick fingers trail down the hood, towards the middle of it, until his digits catch on the small emblem erected there. Hank’s forefinger rises to trace over the right wing of the Chevrolet cross logo. “It’s dangerous.”

“‘C-Connor’, Mr. Anderson?” The RK800 asks then, not sure what else to say.

Something flashes on Hank’s face for just a moment, but Connor is too distracted attempting to process what he has just heard to discern the facial expression. Did Hank just say… Connor? Surely, it must be a coincidence; a mistake. There is no way Hank’s 1987 Chevrolet Caprice also has the same name as him. It sends Connor’s processing core into a spiral with a dizzying start.

“Yes, ‘Connor’,” Hank explains, but it comes out so low that Connor would have thought the man was growling at him if Connor was not so analytical about everything. “My _baby_ , his name is Connor.”

He caresses his Caprice like one would do to their significant other. Connor’s eyes shift away for a moment, his insides becoming hotter with the increasing temperature that rises to his cheeks.

“He is… your baby, you say?”

Connor lifts his chin just a little, enough to peer at Hank with his brown, brown eyes. Hank tilts his head as the android mechanic makes his way over slowly, palm brushing over the head of the emblem. He keeps eyes locked with the mechanic’s noticing the way the dark pupils expand slightly, with a faint red hue in deep in the eyeball; the robotic lenses of the android’s eyeballs. He has not even asked for the android’s name yet, but his mind is already going a thousand miles per hour.

“Yes,” Hank answers.

Two of his fingers, middle and ring finger this time, feel along the groove where the Caprice’s hood hatch is tucked into, not quite delving under it. His tongue comes out to lick over his front teeth, over that gap, barely noticeable from a distance.

The action elicits a whine from Connor’s throat; just a tiny one that sounds like a metal door freaking open just the slightest bit.

“You see, Mr. Anderson, my name is also-“

But Hank grunts, “I don’t want to know your name. I want you to fix my car.”

Connor gulps, then tries again, “Tell me more about your bab- your _vehicle_ , Mr. Anderson.” His voice wavers, and he feels that he might glitch at any time. “Has he… notified you at all? Do any lights flash on when you first turn the ignition?”

Hank purses his lips, nodding then. “Yeah,” he finally speaks. “Yeah, he has.”

“Show me,” Connor says, stepping closer until he is shoes are nearly touching Hank’s own.

**VEHICLE EXPERIENCING BRAKING PROBLEMS**  
**BRAKE SYSTEM NEEDS TO BE REPLACED**  
**OBJECTIVE:**  
** > TEST A N D**  
**DIAGN O S E V4H 1CL 3**

The words flicker across Connor’s HUD, but it is getting harder to focus. There is something growing within him; incinerating the anxious moths that flutter within his abdominal cavern. Their bodies drop dead when they get to his thirium pump regulator, burning in embers to fuel the lust that replaces them.

At least, he thinks it is lust that he feels, but he cannot know for sure because Hank is already pulling him towards the driver’s side of the car, yanking the door open and shoving Connor forward.

Connor’s eyes widen in surprise, his scalp just missing the curve where the vehicle’s side structure meets roof. He bends at the waist to get his torso into the car, finding that the keys are in the cupholder with the car shifted into park; as it should be.

Behind him, Connor can feel Hank’s large, warm round belly press diagonally against the small of his back. His head appears next to Connor’s, looking intently at the dash. A lump forms in Connor’s throat; if he had the need to breathe, he is quite sure that his breath would have hitched at this point.

“What are you waiting for?” Hank’s mouth is so close to Connor’s ear now, the words coming out with a bit of expelled oxygen that blows against the sensitive shell of the android’s ear.

With haste, Connor’s hand shoots out to collect the keychain from the cupholder. He scans it, quickly identifying the old Chevy start key amongst the mass of brass and steel.

Hank jeers him out of focus once again, “Don’t keep Connor waiting.”

“Of course, sir.” Connor inserts the key into its slot on the side of the steering wheel, turning it until the Caprice sputters awake.

The engine putters healthily, the low purr like music to both Hank and Connor’s ears. Then, a small, constant pinging sound comes from the display, accompanying the flashing “CHECK BRAKES” icon. Connor frowns at that; his suspicions being confirmed to be true.

But what makes his face contort more is the _obvious_ stiffy that is grinding against the plush part of Connor’s ass. Hank’s breaths are shallow, rumbling like they are being expelled from him by the force of his lungs rather than smooth muscles’ actions. Killing the engine, he presses back against the erection poking him, shuffling both him and the man back until Connor can exit the vehicle without slamming his head on its ceiling.

In the corner of his eye, there is a spare windshield propped in the corner of Connor’s station, wrapped in protective wrap that are starting to slip from the top; they expose the middle of the glass that reflects both Hank and Connor in an unmarred mirror.

Connor’s LED flickers yellow, taking in the way he and Hank- _Mr. Anderson_ \- fit against each other. With his back arched, his spine curves just so to accommodate the swell of Hank’s hefty belly. His thoracic spine sidles up against Hank’s full bosom. His ass is perfectly flush against the man’s groin, leaving little to no imagination as to what it would look like if Hank were to join his… with Connor. _In Connor_.

Connor gives an excited shiver at the thought.

“So, you see what’s wrong with my Connor?” Hank whispers, never stepping back from their current stance. Instead, he cants his hips, allowing the member in his pants grind up between the clothed trench of Connor’s ass.

Blinking rapidly, Connor can barely focus as he registers what the man is doing. The fire within him grows stronger, from his thirium pump and spreading up along his sternum. He pants now, though he does not require air to function, relishing in the way even the smallest of nooks and crannies fill between Hank and his touching bodies this way.

“Y-yes,” he manages to grind out.

His computing system is warning him all the while:

 **CAUTION:**  
**INVOLUNTARY CORE TEMPERATURE RISING**  
**THIRIUM LEVELS AT 73%**  
…

 **COMPONENT #C762FG TO ACTIVATE?**  
**Y/N**  
.  
..  
…  
** >YES.**  
**COMPONENT #C762FG ON**  
**INITIATING AUTOMATIC DISPENSE OF LUBRICATION**

The sound that comes out of Connor’s throat when Hank’s meaty hands come up to squeeze at the android’s hips is less of a yelp, drawn out high and needy and closer to a whine than anything else. It does not help that bio-component #C762FG begins to pool wetness in his uniform pants; Connor fears that, if he shifts, this moment will slip from his grasp and his chances of feeling _this good_ is too much to pass up.

“So, what are you going to do to fix him?” Hank asks, growling slow and low into Connor’s auditory.

It makes Connor’s titanium knees weak and, if he could, he would tremble at the sound, shake and shudder in this erotic embrace that Hank and he are tangled in right now.

The android, though, gets the idea to move away, shuffling to the side so he can turn around and look Hank in the eye. He will take his chances of 69% success of getting the man to continue this scene in the body shop of Connor’s workplace.

“Let me show you,” Connor steps back when Hank moves forward, trying to catch him in a slowed game of tag.

Connor stretches out an arm, pointer finger curling and uncurling in a teasing motion to beckon Hank over. He keeps walking backwards, his chocolate brown capturing the man’s deep blue, until his lumbar hits the edge of his workbench, which is fixed across from the sitting, spare windshield. Hank follows, hunched forward with a fixed jaw, almost like he has been entranced… or more like he is the predator stalking the ever-naive prey, and that prey goes by the name of Connor.

The temperature deep within his internal framework ups by a good five degrees and, if he was a car himself, he is certain his spur gear differential would be rotating so fast that smoke would blow from his ears. He has never been “prey” before, but the thought of it excites him.

With two, big steps forward, Hank crowds Connor, keeping him at his workbench. They are so close; if Hank were to move an inch nearer, he and Connor would be kissing.

And, by god, that sounds like something Connor would enjoy. So much.

But his eyes slide to the garage door, and the side entrance that leads to the dealership itself. Although one is closed, with the garage door being only an eighth open, Connor knows the potential percentage of someone walking in on them. Still, there is an electric hum that runs through his circuitry at the thought of being caught.

It… thrills him.

“Connor might need a new brake system,” he says simply, referring to Hank’s Chevrolet Caprice. He tilts his head just slightly, exposing a slice of neck that makes Hank’s pupils dilate, the black slowly eating up the sea blue of his irises. Connor pushes off his workbench, “But first, we need to run a few tests…”

Hank nods slowly with eyes looking the mechanic up and down, as if to take in the artificial, man-made curves of his android body. His mouth elicits a small gasp when Connor begins to drop from his standing height.

He sinks down to his knees slowly in front of the man, slinking down in one smooth motion. He drops down into a squat, pants’ seams stretching at the motion. Connor’s legs part in the pose before succumbing to gravity; he settles on his shins and caps with little effort. When he directs his gaze up at Hank’s face, he can see that the man is doing everything to keep still and _not_ bury his hands in Connor’s dark brown hair.

But, as soon as Connor’s hands land on the fly of Hank’s pants, the man is slapping them away, a wicked smile crawling onto Hank’s face; it even travels to his eyes, completing the effect of that gnarly expression. Connor’s hands hang limp by his sides in an instant.

“You’re an android, aren’t you?” Hank asks.

Connor replies, “Yes, sir,”

“Then you’re better, faster, stronger than a human,” Hank says but, this time, does not wait for Connor to confirm the statement. “Don’t use your hands. I know you can do it.”

It is going to be a challenging task, but Connor was built to be the best of the best before his successor, RK, was created. Continuing without the use of his upper extremities should not pose a threat in accomplishing his mission.

His fluid analyzer- his _tongue_ comes out to play then, the synthetic muscle slick with diluted thirium. Connor widens his jaw to let the extent of his tongue make an appearance, knowing full well how he must look right now. The tip of his tongue is so close to the zipper, and Connor does not hesitate to angle his head and lick a broad, definite stripe up the nickel-silver alloy that holds together the denim fabric.

And, boy, does that heighten Hank’s pulse rate.

**ANDERSON, HENRY**  
**RESPIRATORY RATE: 17 BREATHS/MINUTE**  
**PULSE: 88 BPM**  
**BLOOD PRESSURE: RISING--**

Connor stops scanning Hank in favor of grasping the man’s zipper’s slider between his calcium carbonate coated incisors numbered 8, 9, 24 and 25. He dares to flutter his moderate, dark lashes at Hank, before bringing it along the chain, feeling it unhook the zipper teeth one by one. He keeps at it, hands placed neatly in his lap, until the slider hits the retaining box and he can go no further.

A breathless praise slips into Connor’s ears then.

“Good boy,” Hank murmurs, so quietly that Connor strains to hear it.

Nosing the panels of the man’s jeans away from Connor’s new objective target, he takes a dizzy inhale. The scent of musk and… and _Hank_ is so strong now that all there is containing him from being exposed to the garage air is a pair of thin, cotton briefs. It is composed of sweat, high in protein, the natural scent intoxicating to Connor’s olfactory sensors. Connor all but stuffs his face near the obvious bulge in Hank’s underwear, puffing the smell in and out, in and out.

Suddenly, he is caught by the jaw, brought away from the favorable odor. He has the desire to whine.

“I want my Connor to stop when I tell him to stop.” Hank’s voice rumbles from the lowest part of his throat, “You think you can make him do that?”

“Hmmm,” Connor hums and, when Hank releases him, he is going right back where he left off.

Never mind the wetness that is starting to coat the crotch of Connor’s pants; Connor is too zoned-in on getting Hank out of the man’s briefs.

With his strong mandible and mouth, Connor shucks the underwear downward from Hank’s waist. It is hard not to flinch when the man’s cock springs from its cloth prison. And, by god, is Hank _endowed_.

Precum pearling at the purpling tip, Hank’s member curves just the slightest bit upwards, gaining girth towards the middle and thickest at its root. It twitches when Connor’s simulated breaths blow upon it, the skin there soft like velvet. He licks his lips seductively, depositing excess thirium there in preparation for what is to come. Connor cannot wait to get his tongue and throat on it.

So, wait he does not. Delving deep from the get-go, the android encircles the mushroom head of Hank’s cock with both top and bottom lip, the flesh against an artificial one squelching the tiniest bit. Hank hisses hard and sharp as Connor feeds more of the member into the android’s mouth.

Connor would grin if he could, but Hank is _large_ , even from the very start. Instead, he decides to hollow out his cheeks, bobbing his head up and almost off Hank’s cock, before sinking low onto it again. The lack of air in this motion creates a beautiful suction, he knows, and the man above seems to be liking it, too. He tries again, this time activating his fluid analyzer to work; presses flat against the vein that runs along the underside Hank’s cock.

“Holy fuckin’ shit,” gasps Hank right when Connor draws his tongue back the same time his mouth does, and swirls it along the slit of his dick.

 **SAMPLE CONTAMINATED** , his system notifies him, but he cannot care less. The taste is salty, heady but wholly Hank.

An unadulterated moan rips from Connor’s voice box when Hank fists his dark mahogany locks, twisting them in his grasp until the top of Connor’s scalp is tingling with sensation. He makes another descend down Hank’s cock, unfurling his oral muscle once again, as to not obstruct the tube that makes up his synthetic airway; Hank’s phallus will do that for him.

Deeper, deeper. Connor crams more of Hank’s cock into his mouth, whimpering when slickness spreads along the middle seams of his mechanic uniform. He takes in the length of the man, jaw struggling to accommodate his massive girth. It does not help when Connor can _feel_ the cockhead quite literally bump against the back of his throat, forcing Connor to shudder from the tailbone up. He wishes so badly to take Hank’s balls in his hands, roll them like dice, but Hank had told him not to use his hands...

Hank pants like a dog. “Whoa, there. Easy now,” he says, pulling at Connor’s hair until the android is looking up at him with glassy brown orbs.

However, he does not stop, still suckling along the man’s dick until Hank makes an effort to frown and pull him off. Connor releases Hank’s member from his fucked-out mouth with an audible pop.

“You see what I mean?” Hank reiterates on his car problem. “Connor just _won’t stop_.”

“I-I see,” Connor says, his voice now a quarter static. Hank’s cock is so big; it must have tampered with his voice modulator some. “That’s no good,” he continues, unhurriedly bringing his body back to full height. “I think Connor needs his brake system replaced.”

Turning on the balls of his feet, he faces the workbench, palms flat on the tabletop surface as he throws a particularly devilish look over his shoulder.

“Won’t you come help me, Mr. Anderson?”

He watches as Hank gulps, his Adam’s Apple bobbing in time to his swallow. To add to the effect, Connor broadens his stance, ass pushed out towards the man in result of the new pose Connor has chosen to set himself into.

Within seconds, Hank’s hands are on him, no hesitation anywhere in hindsight. Connor purrs in anticipation when Hank places his hands on either side of his hips. He presses in, feeling the sturdy form of Connor’s design.

“Do these come off?” The man asks, bringing his fingers down to massage the two supple cheeks of Connor’s ass.

Nodding, Connor quips, “Get them off for me.”

Hank makes haste and does not waste time; jimmying the android’s uniform pants off after he undoes the belt. They drop to the ground with a soggy _thwock_ sound, revealing Connor’s bare skin, as he believes undergarments for androids is unnecessary and unneeded. What Hank sees, though, is how utterly _dripping_ Connor’s… _oh_... Hank smacks his lips at the sight.

“Beautiful,” he declares.

His voice travels lower and lower until Connor is gasping.

Nimble fingers spread Connor’s drenched, flushed lips there, exposing his cherry red hole. It is beautiful, the skin feeling like silk upon the pads of Hank’s digits. A creamy, translucent sinew of slick and wet, tinted blue from the thirium it is derived from, falls in droplets to the floor; its source: that entrance of Connor’s. Hank thinks no further as he ascends upon it, his senses begging for a taste.

And taste he does, because Connor quite literally yelps when he feels the brush of prickly, greying beard upon his artificial flesh, only to be met with the scorching hot cave of a human mouth.

It is wondrously sultry; Connor moans unabashedly when Hank begins to draw ovals around his prominent nub, equally devouring Connor’s sex at the same time. He feels Hank pause for a second to suck at his sopping lips before tracing a curved line to his front entrance. Only then does Connor really start to up his vocal display of “feels good” in volume.

With scary precision, the man forces his pink tongue into Connor’s soft, wet hole, licking to and fro as the smooth muscle there clenches in curiosity. It feels exquisite, always new, like venturing into a new land of feeling and sensation. Thrusting his tongue now, Hank spreads Connor with his pointer fingers, thumbs playing with the nub in front as he ravishes the android with his tongue.

“Ahh,” Connor’s voice slips, static blurring the edges of his syllables. “Mr. Anderson…”

A grunt bubbles from between Connor’s legs, muffled by his needy sex. He wiggles his pelvis in attempt to get the ball rolling; to have Hank continue. He is rewarded with a slap to the ass, one that jolts his sensors and disrupt his visual feed of the tools hanging from his workbench for a moment.

The scratch of Hank’s beard is amazing, _so good_ against his sensors. If he were human, he would probably obtain beard burn from being this stimulated, and part of his brain is disappointed that he will never get to know what that feels like.

**INTRUSION IN SECTOR--**

Fumbling with his settings, Connor disables the popups on his HUD, annoyed with his system telling him what is going on _down there_ when he can _feel_ what is going on. He mewls high in his throat then, wishing for something bigger, harder, longer... something more.

“Mmm… that’s good,” he announces, bucking away from Hank’s tantalizing mouth. “You’re doing so good.”

Hank clears his throat, groaning when Connor steps out of his pants and wades over to the vise next to the workbench, bending over in a languid stretch. Connor rests his head along the vise’s angular top, gripping the sides like he is holding on and ready for the ride of his life. He smiles softly, still looking at Hank.

Hank is barely able to position himself behind Connor without tripping on his own goddamn feet.

“Now what..?” Hank mutters, but there is a lilt in his tone that symbolizes that he really _does_ know what is about to go down.

His cock, standing proudly at full-mast, prods at Connor’s slick entrance, lined up perfectly for the inevitable. All Connor wants to do right now is impale himself on it, but he has to keep going; has to keep teasing…

“Please,” he says, drawn out and slow like he is not about to jump Hank if they do not hurry up. “Give me your big gear shift, Mr. Anderson.”

As cheesy as it is, the line works tremendously on the man. With unnerving strength, Hank thrusts up into Connor without warning. An aluminum scream punches its way out of Connor as his insides shriek at him, telling him that this is going to be a _very_ tight fit.

Hank’s cock bullies into Connor’s tight, tight passage, stretching the satiny walls to their maximum. It slides in, inch by inch, centimeter by centimeter, until Hank is sheathed to the hilt. It is so big, so large; so huge. He barely fits in Connor.

Connor, though he cannot feel pain, clenches his teeth as he ruts back, trying to adjust to the large girth. He lets the last millimeter sink into his body, fully penetrated by this massive cock owned by Hank Anderson. His bio-component leaks more cyprine fluid in response to the tight fit.

“Ohhh,” he groans involuntarily, nails scraping against the metal of the vise he is holding onto.

“You good?” Hank runs his hands under Connor’s uniform shirt, the gesture used to soothe as he bottoms out inside the android.

Nodding, Connor exhales shakily, his internal cooling fans on full blast to fuel his oxygen intake.

“Move,” he finally bites out, desperation clear in his voice.

And who is Hank to resist giving into Connor’s preceded word of rashness?

Hank cements his feet on the body shop’s ground, allowing his cock to slide out halfway. Then, he is thrusting back in, all the way until his balls slap against Connor’s mound with a smack.

Connor cannot help but close his eyes to take in the full sensation of this; the building heat, though he and Hank have only just begun. His processing core feels like it has caught fire, incinerating slowly in the midst of their fucking. The glide of Hank’s cock within him stimulates his pleasure sensors, racking his cyberbrain with shocks of ecstasy. His passage struggles, loosens then tightens; sucks in that piledriving member, creating delicious friction that both he and Hank love.

Hank thrusts in harder, his soft grunts picking up cooled tar from asphalt, rugged and gravelly by the time it exits from his larynx. Connor claws at the vise he is being railed into, mouth open permanently as Hank presses up against the rough patch within his bio-component.

The color of liquid mercury splashes across Connor’s mind’s eye then, his visual display cutting out for a quick second. His knees lock up in reflex when his system forces him to pre-construct a possible injury when his legs give out. Putting more of his weight on the vise in front of him, Connor leans over it to get better purchase.

“Fuckin’ tight in you,” Hank sneers, but there is no malice behind his sentence.

He brings one of his hands to Connor’s sex, passing over the android’s flushed and dripping lower lips before probing them. Connor’s program lags in that moment, coming back full force when Hank finds the erect, raised pearl between and swipes a full fingertip over the head of it.

“M-uhhh!” he cries incoherently, slamming his hips back against Hank’s in a plea for more.

Something like a tickle crawls along the space where Hank touches him, and Connor gasps. He just _knows_ what this is, as he has felt before; whenever he interfaces with another android, to be exact.

“Mr. Anderson,” he tries to talk, but Connor’s voice is beginning break, his RAM being zapped by the overload of pleasure coursing through is cables and wires. “Ohh,”

Below, his pelvic area is retracting it’s skin to show alabaster white of his calcium carbonate plates and the onyx black of the silicone meant to replicate soft muscle. His hands shiver in delight as the same happens to his fingers; skin fading away in a sheen of cybernetic blue to reveal his endoskeleton.

“You like that, don’t you?” Hank drives in more, increasing the speed at which he plows Connor. “You’re absolutely leaking all over me. So pretty like this, baby.”

Another one of Hank’s digits partners with the single one that is rubbing pertinently over Connor’s sensitive nub. This time, though, Hank puts one finger on either edge of the raised flesh, starting a push and pull motion, jerking the android off with thorough strokes.

Connor’s core reels, a long, breathless keen whistling through his plastic trachea. His eyes cross, roll back in their sockets as he finally gives in to orgasmic rapture.

The first thing that he notices is his optical sensors giving out, going black but also colorful at the same time. A slew of multidimensional fireworks pop and burst behind his eyeballs, disorienting him in the best way possible. A tremor radiates from the uppermost vertebra to the tailbone, shaking Connor to the titanium structure of his chassis. His muscles clench involuntarily along with it, gripping everything as hard as the vise that he leans over for support. Ecstasy curls and unfurls itself with no definite shape or form, but it is there, resonating inside him, like an existential thing that has always been with Connor since the beginning of time; since he can remember. That little tidbit of information both excites and frightens Connor for endless reasons…

But he cannot dwell on it for long because, just as he has come, the android’s systems launch back online, jarring him from his temporary paralysis and self-analyzation.

Connor gasps, eyes snapping open as he is resurrected, still holding fest to the workbench vise as Hank roars behind him. The man is close; he can almost taste it on his tongue. His assumptions are proven correct when Hank starts to warn him.

Hank jabbers, “Gonna fuckin’ blow my load,”

His thrusts are becoming erratic, so off-timing that Connor just knows that what he chooses to say next will be equally as effective if compared to one another. Connor gulps, even though he does require to, hole clamping down on Hank’s member hard.

The android brings his arms behind him, spreading his ass in invitation.

“Come in me. I need your cum, Hank,” he begs prettily. “Inject me with your coolant, sir!”

And come Hank does with a wolfish howl of, “Connor!”

His hips do not still as he comes inside Connor’s puckered passage, greedily seeking out ultimate pleasure with each thrust. Skin slaps against unyielding plastic, creating a lovely cacophony of sound as the man shudders through his orgasm.

Hot, white spurts of his seed paint the insides of Connor’s hole as Hank’s whole body bunches and then relaxes. His weight flops over the android as dull canines bite and scrape across the back of Connor’s neck, causing Connor to moan loudly from the wires vibrating just under it. A second later, Hank’s precious tongue sneaks out, licking across the patch of surface in apology. A sigh puffs out along the area before the kisses rain down on it, nurturing the skin that had once retracted from it back to cover the plastic plating of Connor’s thorax.

They stay like this for a while, just resting after their orgasmic highs, still connected as one. They are sweating from the summer heat, but neither want to move. Connor’s processor begs him to reboot, his systems crying for him to turn his notification popups back on, but Connor could care less right now. He feels so full, so warm inside; something that makes him feel wanted and accomplished all at the same time.

This was worth it, even when Hank _did_ happen to break character.

Suddenly, there is a snap; a sharp crack that shocks both Hank and Connor out of their sensual afterglow. Together, they try to step back and straighten out, with Hank pulling out of Connor’s hole abruptly and leaving him achingly empty. It proves fruitless, because the vise holding their combined heaviness is already crashing to the ground, the wretched noise echoing through the entire body shop garage. Hank and Connor are lucky to fall to their sides, with Connor landing first in order to cushion Hank.

“Oh my god,” Hank finally says after a while, getting up and off Connor before helping him up. “Did I hurt you?”

Connor takes the hand Hank is offering him, getting up and back on his feet. A little smile plays on his lips.

“I am unharmed, Hank. Thank you. But I may have to buy another vise.” He wraps his arms around Hank’s shoulders then, rubbing their noses together in a soft Eskimo kiss. Workbench and vise be damned. “You seemed to enjoy yourself, to the point we broke my equipment.”

Hank grins back. “Yeah, I did. I think we did a pretty good job at retaining the scene, too, even when we broke your auto thing.”

“Hm. Save for breaking out of character just before you came,” Connor teases. “Maybe you enjoyed yourself _too much_ , Mr. Anderson. Who will pay for my broken equipment now?”

“Yeah, yeah. Bill it to me. Our finances are linked anyhow.” Hank rolls his beautiful, blue eyes at his android boyfriend.

They separate to dress; Hank tucking himself back in and redoing his fly, and Connor finding his uniform bottoms again. It is then that Connor gets a wicked idea of bending down in Hank’s plain view to retrieve his clothing.

Connor contracts and loosens his front hole in a blinking motion, positively smug when he feels the remnants of Hank’s spend drip from his entrance, down his succulent lips; clinging to his prominent pearl of sensors prior to leaving Connor’s body for the garage floor.

An animalistic moan weedles out from Hank’s diaphragm.

“You are going to be the death of me, Connor,” he complains, but not really, wishing he could collect the cum dripping from Connor with his thick fingers and stick them back into that heavenly hole of his.

But Connor has other plans, instead scooping the viscous fluid from his thighs and bio-component. He unfolds himself from his bent position, bringing his slick fingers to his mouth and licking them clean. If Hank was still a young lad, the action would have brought on another erection.

“Little minx.” Hank’s dick twitches at the sight, and Hank promises that there will be other times in the near future to make his fantasies a reality.

Connor fastens his trousers, covering himself so he looks somewhat decent again. He brings his face to Hank’s kissing him chastely.

“You love it, though,” he quips playfully. “See you at home, then?” Connor gestures to Hank’s Chevrolet Caprice. “You can take my car while I fix up Capri-Sun for you.”

Hank glances at Capri-Sun, his Caprice, sighing, “And drive your tiny Sentra? I can barely fit in that thing.”

“Well, I think my Sentra is _cute_ , and you fit in it just fine,” Connor says. He grabs his car keys from the workbench, tossing them to his boyfriend. “See you later,”

Hank catches them, fumbling minimally. “I love you, Connor.” He blows a kiss at the android.

“I love you, too,” Connor catches the kiss like a dork. “Now go. If you’re good, I’ll bring home some pizza for dinner.”

Hank’s eyes light up at the mention of pizza, making Connor laugh before they part ways. It will be a while before dinner, but Connor is looking forward to tonight.

 _Are you two done yet?_ comes a telepathic message from RK.

Connor will _not_ catch oculogyric crisis, but it is tempting to. _Yes, RK. Hank just left,_ he replies.

The door leading to the dealership swings open, revealing a very grumpy looking RK.

“Good, because I could not come up with any more excuses to tell Fowler while you two were fucking,” he says out loud. His nose wrinkles when he sniffs the air, his senses of taste and smell much more refined than Connor’s own. “It smells like sex in here, Connor. And you broke your vise? What are we going to tell Fowler now?”

Connor just laughs, pulling his pants up a little higher; he will find his belt later. His thumb comes to stroke at the surface of the coin he keeps in his pocket, similar to how Hank had rubbed him moments earlier.

When all is said and done, maybe becoming _deviant_ is not such a bad thing after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave kudos and a comment if you liked this fic. My engine runs on premium comments and kudos, just like yours.
> 
> Big thanks to my proofreaders; without you, this story would not be posted.  
> Another big thanks to Twitter Jericho- you all are amazing.


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